


Fallout

by cardinalrachelieu



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Slow Burn, Smut, [kazoo noise], relationships built on mutual trust and respect woo!, there's smut now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:19:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1872870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinalrachelieu/pseuds/cardinalrachelieu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a point — a point between screaming at each other about the Ark bracelets and killing Dax in self defense — when Bellamy and Clarke became more than just co-leaders. It happened slowly, so slowly that neither of them even realized the shift. But near death experiences have a way of drawing these things to the surface. Now they have to deal with the fallout from that night at the bunker. (Set after 1x08.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to explore how the night at the bunker affected Bellamy and Clarke's relationship. It was a profoundly intimate experience that made them both realize that they have feelings for one another, but neither of them are willing to admit it or acknowledge it. 
> 
> Vehement distrust has turned into begrudging respect, which in turn has transformed into genuine affection. Too bad they're both so set on keeping up appearances.
> 
> In this timeline the Exodus ship isn't set to launch for another 30 days.
> 
> Now a multi-chapter endeavor.

That night had changed something, changed them. It was the first time Clarke had admitted to herself how much she needed him – and not just for the sake of the group’s survival. Seeing Dax with his gun trained on Bellamy’s head had stirred in her feelings she never even knew existed.

She’d almost lost him. _Forever_.

He was more to her than a co-leader, had become more than that to her. Sure, they butted heads and fought like angry cats half the time, but they had developed a sort of mutual respect for each other. Only now Clarke was realizing that her feelings ran deeper than just respect.

The walk back to camp that night was long and silent. It gave Clarke an nothing but time to reflect on everything – the vision of her father, Dax almost taking Bellamy away from her, the way he’d looked so broken and empty slumped next to her against that tree….

The following day she’d sought him out and suggested they walk the perimeter together. She mumbled something about them needing to communicate better, work as a team and all that. Really, she just needed to be near him, to know that he was still alive and real and safe. And, if she was being honest, she also wanted to make sure that he didn’t try to duck out on them – on _her_ – again.

He gave a stiff nod of his head and left Miller in charge, slinging a rifle over his back before setting off with her.

Crumpling leaves and snapping twigs were the only soundtrack to their walk for most of the way around the camp. Bellamy’s steps were lighter than her own, a skill honed from taking dozens of hunting trips, no doubt. It was a welcome break from the chaos… until they came across the graves.

Then the reality of their situation came crashing back down around her. Clarke stopped and hung her head, solemnly mouthing the names of all the people they’d lost.

Taking a step closer, Bellamy reached up from behind and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Princess,” he sighed.

She let out a small, unconvinced hum, and her vision slowly slid out of focus as she remembered all the ways death had claimed these people – no, these _kids_.

“Clarke…” That got her attention. He only ever called her by name when he was being serious.

She set her shoulders and turned around to face him. To Bellamy, weakness was something to be exploited, and she’d be damned if she showed any in front of him. It surprised her when all she found behind his gaze was tenderness and concern.

“None of this—“ with his free hand he gestured to the mounds of dirt behind her “—is your fault.” He spoke softly and put force behind each word, making sure her eyes stayed on him until he finished.

Some part of her knew he was right, knew that simply because she was in charge didn’t mean she was responsible. Her gaze dragged downward, catching on the graves once more before she clenched her jaw and gave a stiff nod.

His mouth momentarily creased into a satisfied frown and he gave her shoulder a small shake before releasing it. The rest of the way around the camp he talked about their defenses and what they could do to improve them. Rifle training was going well, he told her, noting that about a dozen kids were already pretty good shots.

He was being a good distraction, and she was thankful.

“What about you, Princess?” he teased.

“Hmm?” She absentmindedly kicked a twig across the ground, eyes following its short journey into a pile of leaves.

“What did you do today?” His voice took on a light tone, but the forced smile betrayed his mood. Bellamy had never been one for small talk, least of all with her.

“Like you care,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes and scuffing her boot across the ground again.

“I do.” There was sincerity in his tone. His brows knit together and he planted his feet. Clarke followed suit, turning around to look at him properly. “Look, Finn’s our best tracker. When’s he gonna be okay to go back out?”

She didn’t want to talk about Finn, and she especially didn’t want to talk about Finn with Bellamy. “Three days – two if he’ll just stay in bed and rest like I told him to.” She tried to keep her tone strictly-business, but some of her latent personal frustration shined through.

Bellamy made a face but he didn’t question her further. “Good,” he said, gnawing at the inside of his lip and readjusting the position of his rifle so that it sat a little more squarely between his shoulder blades.

Mercifully, the main gate came into sight. A shout – it sounded like Miller – carried on the breeze, a command to open the gate for herself and Bellamy. Clarke was stalking off in the direction of the drop ship when he caught her by the arm. Her brows creased together as she looked at him for an explanation.

“We should…” he trailed off, his gaze raking over the forest floor as he struggled for words.

Her eyes grew wider as she waited for him to finish the thought, brow arching in impatience. “We should what?”

His tongue traced the outline of his bottom lip before he flicked his eyes back to hers and stood up to his full height. “Same time tomorrow?” When Clarke didn’t immediately respond he cleared his throat and added, “For another walk. I think it’s a good way to relay information, make sure we’re both on the same page.” He bobbed his head as he spoke, as if he was trying to convince himself, too.

Her mouth pinched to the side in a shadow of what once could have been a smile before nodding curtly in agreement. “It’s a date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Reviews give me life, so don't be shy :)


	2. Chapter 2

First thing that morning, as soon as there was a clear channel open to the Ark and the Chancellor was awake, Clarke and Bellamy sat down in front of the makeshift camera. Jaha looked visibly shaken, Bellamy’s face causing him to recoil ever so slightly.

“Mister Blake. I’ve wanted to talk to you for some time now.” Bellamy gulped. He gathered what was left of his resolve and steeled himself for the inevitable rejection.

Clarke took a deep breath and, swallowing hard, spoke up before Bellamy had a chance. “Before you do, uhh, I’d like to say something.”

This wasn’t part of the plan. They’d decided to pressure Jaha into pardoning him by offering up Shumway’s name. He stole a sidelong glance at her, trying to read what she was thinking.

“When you sent us down here,” she continued, “you sent us to die.” It was a statement of fact and Jaha didn’t bother rebutting it. “But… miraculously… most of us are still alive. In large part, that is because of him.” She nodded toward Bellamy, keeping her eyes fixed on the monitor screen.

Bellamy found himself angling his head to look at the woman next to him, confused about why she was sticking her neck out for him like this, why she was crediting him with their survival. She was the one who’d kept them alive, kept _him_ in check. He’d just been looking out for Octavia and himself, she’d been the one to care about the other ninety-nine people that came down to Earth with her.

“Because of Bellamy,” she said a breath later, finally turning and catching his gaze. A small smile turned her lips upward, and he was suddenly very aware of himself, of the way his eyes had been tracing the soft curves of her face and following the wave of golden curls that fell over her shoulders; the way she’d so freely praised his name when she’d seen first hand what his actions had wrought; the way she’d made him feel, just for an instant, that he _was_ a good leader.

He blinked twice and straightened his posture, dragging his eyes off Clarke’s figure and back to Jaha’s cold and unforgiving expression.

“Clarke, I appreciate your point of view, but it’s not that simple.”

They’d anticipated this. And they were ready to counter it.

“It is. If you want to know who on the Ark wants you dead.” His voice cracked on the last syllable, betraying the calm, self-sure mask he’d put on.

The trade hung in the air unanswered for what seemed like minutes. Clarke and Bellamy exchanged a nervous look, a flash of fear igniting behind Bellamy’s eyes when he was sure Jaha was going to turn down the offer. He was going to have to leave camp – leave Octavia, leave Clarke. He was going to have to abandon all of them if he wanted to escape execution.

“Bellamy Blake,” the Chancellor started, leaning closer to the camera, “you are pardoned for your crimes.”

He couldn’t help it. A wave of relief washed over him and dragged his mouth up in a smile along with it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Clarke’s features twisting up in a similar way. He wished she would do that more.

“Now,” Jaha continued, “tell me who gave you the gun.”

 

* * *

 

“It was Octavia, I know it was,” Bellamy breathed with a heavy sigh, kicking a small rock into the scrap metal barrier separating their camp from the rest of the world. It resonated with a soft _clang_ while he and Clarke continued their evening walk.

“And now a grounder that we tortured is free and back with his people,” Clarke said with a defeated huff.

“I don’t… I don’t know what she could’ve been thinking.” There wasn’t anger behind his words, just disappointment. His sister had put them all in danger, a concept which Octavia didn’t quite seem to grasp.

“She thought that we were gonna kill him,” Clarke mused. “And she was right. We were never planning to let him walk out of here alive.”

A silence followed Clarke’s realization as they both considered the weight their decisions, of what they’d been willing to do to protect the people in this camp.

“She stopped us from murdering someone,” Bellamy almost whispered, an edge of disgust lacing his otherwise thankful tone.

But a tortured grounder wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ go unanswered. Bellamy struggled to see a clear path through the thicket of brambles Octavia had brought crashing down around them.

“I’ll start working with our gunners. Get them prepared for the possibility of an attack.” Guns. Training. Routine. These were all things Bellamy knew, things he could control. The sinking feeling in his gut – the one that told him he would never be able to protect all of them –  was just as familiar. _You couldn’t protect her, either._

“Mm,” she hummed absentmindedly, mouth clinging to the noise long after it had passed her lips.

Her body was in turmoil. The pragmatic part of her said Bellamy needed this information, but the pacifist – the part of her that was still hoping for peace with the grounders – told her this was wrong.

A flash of Jasper being staked to a tree by a spear seared her mind and made the decision for her. “But they also need to know what to do if a grounder gets in close,” she muttered with resignation. Clarke reached for his wrist, urging Bellamy to a stop as she gathered the strength to tell him what he needed to know.

Her hand was shaking as she pointed first to his neck, then to the crook of his elbow, and finally to the inside of his upper thigh. “Here, here, and here are arteries. Cut one open, and you’ll bleed out in a matter of minutes.” Next, she lightly pressed on the skin covering his spleen, just below his rib cage. “This is a vital organ. Without surgery, an injury here will result in almost certain death.” She rushed the words, as if the syllables themselves stung her tongue.

Bellamy stared down at her trembling hands, the gravity of her lesson pressing into his chest like a lead weight. In no uncertain terms, she was teaching him the most effective ways to kill someone. She was a _healer_.

All he could do was look on in horrified awe as she pressed on, her mouth twisting up in aversion as the secrets spilled from her lips.

Turning him around so she could touch his lower back, she continued. “And these are the kidneys. There’s one on either side of the spine. If you aim for one of these, you’ll likely hit other vital organs in the process.” She clenched her fingers into loose fists, allowing them to drop back to her sides. Clarke’s gaze was unfocused on Bellamy’s chest as she forced herself to continue. “The eyes are vulnerable and injury to them will, at the very least, slow someone down. So will cutting the tendon on the back of the heel. You can’t walk without it.”

He could tell how much it hurt her to describe this, saw how her hand would almost imperceptibly spasm whenever she reached for a new area of his body, as if her muscles themselves objected to this.

Her eyelids pressed closed, skin creasing into angry lines around them, before delivering the final piece of advice, and Bellamy could see the war taking place within her. “The chest cavity is well protected, but if you stab underneath the ribs and aim upward you’ll likely hit the heart or lungs.”

She let out a shaky breath, hands rattling uncontrollably. It was a long moment before Bellamy could will his body to move again. Once he regained control of his limbs, he forced his calloused fingertips through Clarke’s tight fists, pressing the pads of his forefingers into her palms as his knuckles closed around the outside edge of her hands. He squeezed, keeping a constant pressure as he dipped his head to catch her eyes.

Saying _thank you_ felt somehow wrong. You don’t thank another person for teaching you how to end a life. So instead he tucked his chin to his neck, slowly and only once.

She did the same.

The rest of their walk was silence, much like the sound of the camp as they laid awake that night, unable to sleep. Clarke, because she’d betrayed every value she held dear when she’d explained to Bellamy how to kill someone; Bellamy, because he was beginning to understand just how wrong he’d been about Clarke.

She was stronger than he gave her credit for. There was more to Clarke Griffin than her lineage on the Ark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this chapter was so heavy, I kept it short. Don't worry, mon petit croissants, the smut is coming.
> 
> Reviews give me life, so don't be shy :)


	3. Chapter 3

They’d been taking walks now for a week; sometimes midday, sometimes after sunset, but always just the two of them. The camp wall was never more than ten yards away, fear of a grounder retaliation keeping them anchored close to home. ( _Home_. This place had become _home_.)

Although they’d never spoken about it again, Clarke’s lesson on… human anatomy still hung heavy in the air around them, shaping their interactions like a glacier that had carved out a valley. Bellamy understood now that Clarke was strong, that she was willing to do whatever it took to help them survive; Clarke understood that the idea of ending a life weighed heavily on Bellamy, and that his motivations to keep them safe were pure.

Each stroll put them more at ease with one another, Bellamy using gestures more freely and Clarke allowing a smile to pinch her tired cheeks up toward her eyes. On a few occasions, they’d even had a conversation unrelated to leadership responsibilities.

Everyone in the camp quickly learned that the twenty minutes Clarke and Bellamy were talking were twenty minutes during which they should not be disturbed.

Miller had made the mistake of pestering them during the second day, which had earned him a verbal lashing from Bellamy. (“Unless grounders are _literally setting fire to the camp_ , I don’t wanna hear about it until we get back!”) Clarke had apologized, but they hadn’t been disturbed since.

Bellamy sucked in a gulp of air and tucked his chin to his chest. He did it every time they started getting close to the graves. Seven days, seven times walking past the bodies of dead kids. Clarke still hadn’t gotten used to it. She still felt the twinge of guilt each day – still stopped to remember their names – and it wasn’t getting easier.

She set her feet into the earth, heels pressing down stubbornly. “I can’t do this today—I don’t _want_ to do it.” Her eyes plead with him to understand.

By some great mercy, he did, and she didn’t have to explain further.  Tilting his head toward the forest, he took a step away from the wall and waited for her to follow suit.

This was stupid. They were opening themselves up to an attack. This far away from the perimeter, they didn’t have the protection of their gunners. Bellamy knew all of this and still, it was a better alternative than walking by an empty grave he’d dug for Charlotte _again_.

They walked in silence for several dozen yards, farther and farther away from the safety of the camp. The normal bright green of the moss and leaves seemed duller, more muted. Bellamy told himself it was because the sun was going down; Clarke told herself the same thing.

She was the first to speak, choking on her words and having to clear her throat. “Today would have been his eighteenth birthday.” There was an echo of the strength her voice normally carried, but it’d been broken under the unyielding weight of loss.

Bellamy’s not an idiot; he knew exactly who she was talking about – Jaha’s kid. Wells. The man Charlotte murdered because of the advice _he’d_ given her.

A painful pressure swelled in his chest. He shifted his feet – as if a new stance would make this type of pain go away – and pinched his lips into a hard line to match the crease that had suddenly marred his forehead.

“I hated him for so long…” She’d stopped walking now, lost in memories and guilt. “Everyday I was locked in that cell I would curse him. I would’ve wished him dead, but I… I couldn’t.” She’d stopped talking to Bellamy, forgetting his presence almost entirely. This was an admission all for herself. “Despite everything he’d done, I still cared about him. And I _hated_ myself for caring about him—the way he’d torn apart my family, I just....” Tears lined the rim of her eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment.

Bellamy realized that he was seeing a side of Clarke she never showed to anyone, at least not voluntarily. He felt like an intruder. For a split second, he considered turning to leave, but then Clarke would be alone and unarmed in the forest at night.

“Turns out I spent all that time hating an innocent man… and alienating a friend.” A sour taste had filled her mouth and she rolled her tongue over her teeth to try to get rid of it.

He didn’t know what she needed or how to give it to her, and seeing her tear herself apart like that made him want to crawl out of his own skin. If he could just comfort her, get her to see that none of this was her fault. “Look, Princess, I…”

His voice seemed to snap Clarke out of her trance. “I’m—“ she blinked, eyes wide and searching from side to side for some explanation. “I’m sorry.” She swallowed – hard – and rolled her shoulders back so that her spine was a little straighter.

“You know…” he started, unsure of what exactly he was going to say. “You can take it off.”

“Excuse me?” she scoffed, brows lifting dangerously high.

“No—that’s—“ he sighed, mentally cursing himself for the poor choice of words. “I meant your armor,” he tried again. Her brows tipped downward, like she was focused on trying to solve some puzzle. “You don’t…” his forehead creased, frustrated that his mouth couldn’t form the right words. “You don’t have to be a leader all the time, not around me.”

Her head tilted to the side, eyes slowly running over his form as her lips twitched into a small, brief smile. “You’re not the person I thought you were.” There was a tiredness to her words.

Bellamy shifted uncomfortably. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” he asked, cautious.

She hummed something that sounded like approval, her mouth dragging up into an almost genuine smile. “We should probably get back.”

 _Right_ , Bellamy thought. _Grounders_.

 

* * *

 

Each evening around dusk they would take a break from their normal duties and walk into the woods a ways. They’d abandoned the perimeter walks – it was too painful for them to casually stroll by the bodies of dead kids every evening.

Reason told them that putting themselves in so much danger once a day was irresponsible; too bad reason wasn’t the only factor governing their decisions. They justified their little trips by saying it was an effective way to catch each other up on the day’s happenings. Plus, if they were being honest, it was nice to have a few moments to themselves. From sun up until sun down – and sometimes well into the night – Clarke and Bellamy had to be leaders; their presence was always needed somewhere.

But when they were outside the wall and underneath the trees  – just the two of them – they got to be normal. For the half hour they allowed themselves (because it had slowly stretched from twenty, to twenty-five, and finally to thirty minutes), they were just regular human beings like everyone else.

They were even starting to genuinely enjoy each other’s company. It turned out that Bellamy wasn’t a callous asshole all the time and Clarke wasn’t an uptight bitch. Funny what mask people put on when they become responsible for the survival of others….

“We’ve gotta do something about the moonshine. Hungover delinquents are useless.” His expression hardened and his gaze went somewhere far away. She might as well have been invisible for all the attention he paid her next remark.

“What, and you want to confiscate their alcohol? I’m sure that’ll go over well.” She all but snorted the last part, a picture of the delinquents’ uproarious protests springing to life in her mind.

He was right, she knew he was. She wasn’t even sure why she hadn’t just nodded in agreement and moved forward. Three kids had stumbled into the drop ship just that day, shielding their eyes from the morning sunlight and slurring together a plea for pain medication. They had a problem on their hands.

“No, but it’s better than someone getting caught off guard by a grounder because they have a pounding headache and can’t see straight.” He was being pragmatic, just attending to business. Clarke wasn’t quite sure why, but that frustrated her. It frustrated her that he wanted to so quickly resolve this issue.

“I _am_ getting pretty tired of kids coming to me for hangover cures. Our stocks of herbs get depleted every few days.” This was a superficial problem at best, but the underlying cause still made her uneasy.

She bit the inside of her lip, mind working toward a viable solution. It was only a matter of time before there was a serious accident.

He tucked his thumbs into his waistband, allowing his elbows to splay out to the sides. “And I’m concerned that one of these idiots is going to hurt themselves. We’re not exactly working with the most refined tools out here.”

Two days ago Connor had come to her with a five inch gash that had narrowly missed the veins of his forearm. “My hand slipped,” he’d groaned through closed eyelids, a distinctive pallor coloring his features. She didn’t miss the way he recoiled from her voice either, as if it was something that burned him.

“Right.” The corners of Clarke’s mouth dropped, transforming into a pensive scowl. “So what do you wanna do?” she asked softly, craning her neck to look up at Bellamy. His eyes were focused on something on the horizon, and in that moment she was thankful he didn’t see the way her gaze lingered on the hard line of his jaw.

Everyone needed at least a small personal supply of the stuff to disinfect minor scrapes and injuries, so they couldn’t restrict access completely. Plus, it was good for morale. Getting rip roaring drunk every now and then had astounding curative properties for the soul.

Independently, they arrived at the same solution, biting back a sneer when it was all too similar to how things were taken care of back on the Ark.

“Rations,” they both breathed, a ghost of a laugh passing over their lips when they caught that they’d spoken at the same time.

“God, we sound just like them.” Clarke’s tone was dry, empty at the realization that she was turning into the very people that had sent her – _them_ – down here to die.

He thought for a long minute. “Yeah.” The word felt like an admission of guilt on Bellamy’s tongue.

All the same, this was necessary. If they wanted to survive, rules were necessary.

It wasn’t until they made it back to the gate that either of them spoke again, Clarke being the one to break the heavy silence. “We make a good team, you know.” Her lips turned up into a brief smile as she flicked her eyes up to meet his.

Bellamy returned it, an easy lilt returning to his tone when he replied, “We do, don’t we?” His brows pulled in, eyes narrowing playfully as he seemed to consider her statement.

“Mm.” Clarke allowed her eyes to drag over him, not caring that he could see her do it. “I’ll see you in the morning, Bellamy.”

With that, she turned on her heel, taking slow, measured steps toward her tent. If she exaggerated the swaying of her hips – and she most certainly did _not_ – it definitely wasn’t on purpose.

“Sleep well, princess,” he called after her.

She was glad her back was turned to him as she walked. It meant that he couldn’t see the distinctive flush that crept into her cheeks when his words reached her ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hang in there, kiddos. No frick-frack-paddy-whacking until mutual trust and respect has been established. (Which it now has, so look forward to smut in the next update.)
> 
> Reviews give me life, so don't be shy :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE THAT THE RATING HAS GONE UP. 
> 
> (Yes, it's because of smut. Obviously.)

Bellamy’s footsteps were light as he and the hunting party made their way back into the safety of the camp’s walls, guns and carcasses slung over their shoulders with pride. An open-mouthed smile spread across his features as he clapped Harper on the back, enthusiastic praise flowing from his lips.

His good mood was tempered, though, when he saw Clarke storming across the camp toward him, her blonde hair flaring out behind her from the force of her self-created breeze. Octavia chased close at her heels, earnestly pleading with Clarke to calm down. Futilely, she kept reaching for Clarke’s wrists only to have her hands swatted away.

_She’d told on him. Great._

The second she knew he was within earshot, Clarke tore into him.  “Of all the idiotic, self-centered, reckless schemes you’ve come up with, this one – by far,” she laughed humorlessly, “takes the cake!” She spat the words at him, eyes glowing bright with unrestrained anger.

He pressed his lips together firmly, hanging his head in resignation. Turning on his heel, he took even strides back out of the main gate and into the welcoming canopy of the forest. He didn’t bother checking if Clarke was following him; her steady stream of insults found their way to his ears even after he’d walked a couple hundred yards out.

“Where the _hell_ do you think you’re going!? _I’m talking to you, Blake!_ ”

He finally came to a halt next to the trunk of a towering conifer, rooting his feet into the dirt and placing his hands on his hips. “Well, I figured since you were so hell bent on yelling at me, we could at least do this away from the rest of camp.”

She caught up with him, panting hard from keeping pace with his much longer gait. “I—”

“No, it’s fine. Let me have it.” He made a beckoning motion with his fingers, shifting his weight onto one leg.

Clarke was momentarily stunned into silence by his invitation. He was always, _always_ combative. She found her voice a second later, blinking quickly to remind herself of her rage. “What the _hell_ were you thinking, Bellamy?”

Bellamy – the single most vigilant person in the camp with regards to security and safety. He was well known for occasionally ripping into a guardsman for failing to meet his personal standards of preparedness. (“Grounders can attack at any time, and we need to be ready!” and “You slack off and you might get yourself and everyone else killed!” were favorite phrases of his.)

“Calm down, Princess,” he placated, eyes rolling at her intensity. “What’s your damage?” There was legitimate confusion in his tone.

 _The asshole is actually oblivious_ , she thought.

“What’s my damage? _What’s my damage!?_ ” Without really meaning to, she raised her voice an octave or two, punctuating each syllable with over dramatic hand gestures. “You could have gotten all those kids killed!”

He shrugged. “They needed some fun, Clarke.” These kids – because they _were_ kids – had been forced to fill the roles of soldiers, and it was beginning to break them. “Plus, we were running low on meat and the grounders wouldn’t dare attack us in the middle of the day – not when there were over a dozen of us.”

“Taking all of our gunners on an impromptu hunting trip was reckless! You put every single one of us in danger!” She was livid, an almost visible aura pulsating off her in tense, angry waves.

“Hey, two stayed behind on guard duty! Give me at least a little credit.” The idea that he’d leave her and the rest of the hundred completely unprotected was a touch insulting, making his chin tuck back and his brows crease together.

“Oh! I’m _sorry_!” Clarke was overly animated, sarcasm dripping from the mock apology. “ _Two_ trained gunners stayed behind. We would’ve been _fine_ had grounders attacked while the rest of you were running around chasing two–headed deer!”

“But they didn’t,” he said slowly, trying to remind her that no one had actually died.

She threw her hands up in defeat, letting them slap against her thighs as they fell. “That’s not the point!” She sighed, closing her eyes and roughly pressing her forefingers into her temples. “I thought we were making decisions together, Bellamy.” She allowed her hands to drop back to her sides, gaze fixing itself to a spot between his feet before she continued. “What the hell happened to presenting a ‘united front’?”

“I didn’t—”

She held up her hand, eyes flicking up with such finality that he stopped himself mid-thought. “I’m not finished.” She took a step closer, a terrifying calm overtaking her features. Clarke inhaled sharply, mouth forming around a word twice before she finally settled on saying it. “I thought I could trust you. But you just proved to me that you’re no better than Finn.”

“Now hold on just a second, Princess.” His hand palmed the air in front of him, jaw clenching in time with his breaths.

“So you’re telling me you _didn’t_ make a life-endangering call behind my back,” she scoffed, jaw setting into a hard line.

“ _You were never in danger!_ ” He was yelling now, too.

“But _you_ were!” Her voice broke on the last word but her eyes met his without wavering. “And you’re too stubborn to even realize it,” she added a breath later, tone softening. Her eyes flitted from tree to tree as she tried to blink back the wet sheen that had coated her irises.

The rawness of her accusation struck, what felt like, an exposed nerve in Bellamy, and he instinctively reached a hand up to her shoulder, resting it there lightly. His brows creased in their familiar line as he finally began to understand Clarke’s outburst.

“I can’t do this without you, Bellamy.” Her admission was small and barely audible, eyes trained on his chest as she struggled to steady her breathing.

“Clarke…”

The anger returned to her eyes, matching itself in her tone. “So you can’t fucking _die_.” She shoved him on the last word, but his hands caught her wrists easily, sending her stumbling forward into him.

She could feel the hard lines of his body pressed against her, solid and inviting underneath her touch. She tried not to dwell on the fact that a dull ache was persistently growing deep in her core, blossoming heat through her limbs and making her lean into his grip just a _little bit_ more.

When he didn’t immediately release her, she rolled her head back to look up at him. “L– Let go of me, Bellamy,” she breathed, eyelids fluttering in time to his pulse.

Did she want him to let her go? Everything had become so much more complicated over the past few weeks. He’d moved from being a thorn in her side to being a person she cared about – _really_ cared about. They were partners.

And now the involuntary flip her stomach was doing told her maybe she was perfectly content staying right where she was.

“Okay,” he said flippantly. “If that’s what you want.” His grip around her wrists loosened instantly, though she allowed her hands to continue resting against him where they’d been trapped a moment before.

There was a confidence behind his eyes; she recognized it as the same look she got whenever she knew – moves in advance – that she was going to win at chess. He wanted this, too.

 _It’ll change everything_ , the logical, rational part of her brain screamed in protest, her eyes flicking from his eyes to his lips and back again. “Oh, to hell with it,” she muttered.

Her fingers suddenly found themselves anchored in his dark brown hair, dragging his face toward hers, and it was like he’d just been waiting for her to give in because Bellamy didn’t miss a beat. He circled his arms around her waist, lifting her up to meet him and crashing his mouth against hers with enough force for Clarke to feel a vibration through the bones in her jaw.

Soon after, her back collided with the jagged bark of a tree and Bellamy gripped the flesh under her thigh, yanking upward. It was a good thing she had a strong hold on his upper body; otherwise, she would have tumbled to the side. As it was, however, his forceful nudge had only succeeded in securing one of her legs around his waist. The other followed a moment later when he rolled his hips against her and she realized that her dangling limb was preventing full contact between them.

Bellamy’s mouth was hot against her neck as he diligently nipped and sucked at the delicate skin, each circular mark that he left in his wake earning him a throaty moan from the blonde writhing beneath him.

Clarke tried to concentrate on other things – she really did – but the way he was pressing his pelvis against her caused all other thoughts to be eclipsed. _Bellamy Blake was fucking huge_.

She let out a small whimper then and was pleased to hear that it sounded less desperate than she felt. A low rumble echoed through his chest as Bellamy brought a hand between them, turning his attention to the clasp of her jeans.

Clarke dug her nails into his shoulders, cutting half moons into the flesh even through the material of his shirt. His fingers traced the seam of her underwear, teasing a promise of what was to come . Impatient, Clarke ground her hips against him, and she could feel his resulting groan vibrate through her own body.

“Easy, Princess,” he cautioned, aligning his mouth to nip at the corner of her jaw.

Her reply was to repeat the motion and thread her fingers through the dark curls at the base of his neck. With a sharp tug, his chin was angling upward, forcing him to look down at her through slanted eyes.

He met her challenge by plunging his hand into her pants, fingertips sliding smoothly against her wet folds. She gasped, her thigh muscles clamping around his waist a little more tightly as she released her hold on his hair.

Lids heavy, she allowed her head to knock back against the solid structure of the tree, finding comfort in the fact that it was keeping her upright. She canted her hips to meet his efforts, a hum emanating from somewhere deep in her throat.

“Holy shit, Clarke.” The list of things that were capable of shocking Bellamy was short. Finding a veritable puddle in Clarke’s underwear as a result of _his_ ministrations was on that list.

“Bellamy—” The low, gravelly tone of her voice cut through his train of thought, anchoring his body in the present.

“Mm?” Her eyes were still closed when he kissed the hollow spot just below her ear.

“Stop talking,” she commanded, rocking her hips to guide his hand closer to her entrance.

It was all the encouragement he needed because a moment later he was slipping one, then two, fingers inside her, relishing in the way small sighs escaped the cage of her lips each time he curled them inward.

It wasn’t long before she was bucking against him, and she could feel that familiar knot forming in the pit of her stomach. It was like a spring being wound tighter and tighter, and just when she thought she couldn’t stave off her release a second longer—

“Clarke? _Claaarke?_ ” Finn’s voice sung out through the trees, hitting their tangled bodies in a wave of unwelcome interruption.

Bellamy all but growled as he pulled away from her, an uncomfortable tightness straining at the waistband of his jeans. Clarke roughly pushed her shirt back down, smoothing the fabric over the top of her unbuttoned pants. _Shit, her pants were undone._

Shaking fingers scrambled to do up the clasp of her jeans, finally securing the garment but only after significant exertion.

It was Bellamy who stepped out from their hiding spot first, the trunk of the large tree no longer obscuring his body. Clarke followed a moment later, hoping she didn’t look at flushed as she felt.

“What is it, Finn?” She was surprised at how even her tone sounded, how there wasn’t so much as a hint of  a waver in pitch. It was so unlike the erratic pounding inside her chest.

“There you are. Look, I need to talk to you.” Of course he did.

“Okay,” she said without a hint of malice in her tone. She could do this. She could be civil.

Finn’s eyes flicked from Clarke to him and then back again. “Alone,” he clarified.

Her chin tilted back as she appraised him. “No, I don’t think so.” There wasn’t a single fluctuation in her tone. It was cold, detached. “What did you need to tell me?” The strange lilt in her voice might’ve been confused for amicability if it weren’t for her icy stare and forced smile.

Finn held his tongue, matching her stubborn gaze with one of his own.

Bellamy carefully watched the silent exchange, eyes darting back and forth between the two. He’d known that there had been something between Clarke and Finn – hell, the whole camp did – but he was just now beginning to understand how deeply Finn must have betrayed her trust.

Her earlier comment suddenly stung a bit more.

Bellamy was the one to finally break the uncomfortable silence. “Oh, fine. _I’ll_ leave,” he huffed.

“No.” It didn’t escape him how instantaneously his body obeyed her command, forward motion halted by the anchor of a single word.

“Clarke, please,” Finn begged, brows raising in a silent prayer.

She crossed her arms in front of her chest and shifted her weight to her left side, creating a perfect picture of annoyed indifference.

“I set up a meeting with the grounders,” he said a moment later, eyes never leaving Clarke’s.

“You did _what!?_ ” Bellamy’s nostrils flared dangerously and the coil of his muscles told Clarke that, were it not for her small frame separating them, he would lay into Finn with all of the pent up rage he’d been bottling for weeks.

Finn took a step back. “Just hear me out—”

Without looking, Clarke brought her right hand up to Bellamy’s chest, holding him at bay behind her. He clenched his teeth but stayed exactly where her light touch held him. “What were you _thinking_ , Finn?”

“I was thinking that maybe we have a shot at peace,” he returned, matching Bellamy’s fiery gaze. Then, slowly sliding his eyes back to hers, he continued with his appeal. “But we have to go _now_.”

 

* * *

 

Finn trudged on ahead of them, hurriedly leading the way back to camp.

Bellamy leaned in toward Clarke’s shoulder as they walked, dropping his voice low so that only she would be able to hear it. “This isn’t over, Princess.”

“Bellamy,” she deadpanned, “let’s focus on not dying for right now.”

“Okay,” he conceded. “But after we somehow manage to not get killed, we’re having a talk.” He wasn’t giving up that easily.

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” she returned easily, eyes dancing between looking straight ahead and checking the forest floor for any obstacles.

“I’m serious, Clarke.” His fingers closed around her shoulder, gently asking her to let him in.

Her feet slowly dragged to a stop as she turned to face him. Her entire chest sagged with what appeared to be exhaustion. “So am I,” she said, lips pressing into a determined line. “What we did, it— it can’t happen again,” she finished, jaw clenching.

Bellamy’s brows slowly drew together, recognition twisting his features in a way that made her heart hurt. Clarke couldn’t bear to see the way his eyes bore into her, so she allowed hers to flit around, from the trees to the sky so the fallen leaves on the ground.

They couldn’t do this. Too many people depended on them.

Neither of them had even noticed Finn backtracking toward them. “What’s the hold up?” he asked, clueless, forehead wrinkling up in expectancy.

“Nothing,” Clarke supplied, giving Bellamy one last apologetic glance before turning her attention to Finn.

He nodded, pleased. “Good. So let’s keep moving.”

Clarke positioned herself next to Finn, and Bellamy could see the way that her posture suddenly stiffened. “Are you planning on telling me what exactly I’m walking into?”

“You meet their leader – alone, no weapons – and you talk.” He made it sound so simple.

“Like hell she’s doing that,” Bellamy gritted, which earned him a stern glare when Clarke craned her neck back to look at him.

“She needs to because that’s the only way this is going to work,” Finn shot back. Then, to Clarke, “If we show up armed, they’ll think we’re trying to attack.”

“Clarke, this is dangerous,” he tried again – for what purpose, he wasn’t sure because she already seemed resigned to the idea.

Her mouth quirked to the side. “No, he’s right. We can’t go out there carrying weapons. It sends the wrong message.”

“I’m not letting you walk into this defenseless.” Diplomacy was all well and good, but walking into a trap was pure stupidity.

“I won’t be,” she returned over her shoulder. “Because you’ll have my back.” She said it as if it was obvious – and to them it was – but Finn whirled on her, bringing his hand to her forearm where she frowned down at it with thinly veiled hostility.

Seeing her discomfort, he retracted his palm. “Clarke, I promised that it would just be us.”

“Yeah, something which I never agreed to,” she reminded him, tone cutting deep trenches into his ego.

She stormed forward, leaving Finn to collect himself. Bellamy jogged after her and he couldn’t stop the small grin that pulled at his lips. Spacewalker deserved to be knocked down a notch or two.

“I don’t care what Finn says, I want you there,” she muttered, never breaking stride and keeping her gaze straight ahead.

Good. They were on the same page.

“I’ll grab Raven and Jasper, follow close behind.” Maybe he couldn’t stop this halfcocked plan from moving forward, but he could damn sure do his best to keep her from getting killed.

Clarke gave a short nod, dropping her voice to just above a whisper before uttering her next words. “And Bellamy… bring guns.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure when I'll be able to update this next, but know that I _do_ plan on continuing it.
> 
> Reviews give me life, so don't be shy :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writer's block is a real bitch, y'know? Sorry this update took so long. I'd really only had a plan through Chapter 4 and then my brain just sort of went ???? and I couldn't think of what to do next. I have a pretty good idea of where I want to take things now, though.
> 
> Sort of.
> 
> To everyone who's still reading this: thanks for sticking with me. Ur da best.

A branch slashed the heated skin of her cheek as Clarke sprinted through the forest, trampling leaves and twigs beneath the press of her boots. Finn and Raven charged ahead of her and Bellamy was close at her heels. Jasper and Octavia flanked her sides, weaving in and out of the trees as they kept pace.

 _Brilliant, Clarke. Meet the grounders on the edge of their territory where they have every advantage. What could possibly go wrong?_ her inner voice chided—as if sarcastically reminding herself what she’d (stupidly) agreed to would help their present situation.

A stray root snaked up and nicked her ankle, causing her to stumble and nearly fall. Bellamy’s hands were at her waist before her knees were able to touch, though, keeping her upright and continuing to drag her forward. He released his hold a second later, almost shoving her back to her position in front of him.

 _No weapons, my ass_ , she seethed, burning a spot onto the back of Finn’s head with her pointed stare. He was an idealist—always wanted to believe the best in people, to trust them implicitly—almost to a fault. Normally it was something she admired about him, but today it had nearly gotten them all killed.

Clarke could see Raven curtly whispering something to him as they ran, tension straining the muscles in her neck. He would occasionally wince at her words but his steps never faltered.

Clarke’s breaths were coming heavily when they finally slowed to a halt just outside the main gate of the camp, oxygen burning as she pulled it into her lungs.

Miller jogged out to meet them, a concerned expression coloring his features. Bellamy held up a hand and waved him off, briefly wondering how things might’ve gone differently if he’d taken Miller and instead left Jasper in charge of everything. Perhaps they’d be breaking bread with the grounders right this minute… or maybe Clarke and the rest of them would’ve been killed by one of the archers hidden in the trees and warriors would be tearing through their measly camp and slaughtering the last of the delinquents.

He swallowed, trying to shake the _what if_ s from his mind. One thing was absolutely certain: if Spacewalker hadn’t set up this meeting in the first place, none of them would be in this situation.

His piercing stare found Finn a moment later. “You got something to say?” Bellamy panted, fingers curling dangerously around the hilt of his rifle.

Finn met his gaze, dropping his hands to his knees to steady his breathing. “I told you no guns!” he bit back.

Clarke flung a hand to her hip, using the other to gesture at him flippantly. “And I told _you_ we couldn’t trust them. I was right.”

His brows briefly pinched together, expression morphing into one of disappointment. “You didn’t need to trust them,” he sighed, dejected. “You just needed to trust me.”

Clarke held his gaze as his chest heaved, and it didn’t escape her that Raven’s jaw clenched and unclenched the longer Finn kept his eyes trained on her.

Bellamy was the one to break the strained silence, turning the focus to his sister. “What the hell were you doing with that damn grounder, O?”

“None of your business,” she bit back.

Bellamy puffed out his chest, crowding in closer to her. “I’m making it my business.”

Finn shoved an arm between them, distracting Bellamy long enough to get a word in. “He’s on our side—”

“Like hell he is,” Bellamy cut him off, tone sharp.

“They were going to shoot Clarke!” Jasper yelled, eyes wide and brows raised as he gestured emphatically.

Finn rounded on him. “We don’t know that! You shot first!”

“Yeah, and you’re lucky we did,” Raven said, voice level and warning.

Finn’s jaw set in a hard line before he turned to face her. “What the hell were you even doing there, Raven?”

Bellamy stepped up once again, angling his chin so that he was looking down on Finn. “She was there because I asked her to come,” he said coolly.

Finn rolled his eyes. “Of course you did,” he scoffed, drawing out the first few syllables.

A frustrated breath pressed from Octavia’s mouth as she threw her hands up in the air. “I’m out of here, I can’t deal with this.” Then, taking all except Finn into her wrathful gaze, “You ruined everything.”

“Octavia, come back here!” Bellamy growled, angling his shoulders in her direction, fingers wrapping a bit tighter around the barrel of his gun.

She whipped around, hair fanning out around her, and stalked back toward him—forcing Bellamy to take a step back so she didn’t push him over. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Bellamy, but you don’t control me anymore,” she hissed, voice low and hostile.

“Octavia, wait!” Jasper called, reaching a hand out to stop her. She yanked her arm away, the force of the movement creating a small breeze in her wake.

“ _Don’t_ touch me,” she said, tone scathing. “Don’t even talk to me.” Octavia blew past Jasper, the last person blocking her path from the entrance to camp.

“I saved you!” he yelled after her, insulted at her dismissal of their efforts. Octavia didn’t even so much as hesitate as she continued to stalk toward her tent. “You’re welcome,” he muttered under his breath, turning to follow.

Finn turned to Bellamy again, shaking his head. “You destroyed any chance we had at making peace with them,” he said, all fight flushed from his system.

Raven’s brows furrowed in disbelief—revulsion, even. “We saved your life.”

“Yeah, well,” he flung his arms wide, “if we weren’t at war before, we sure as hell are now.” Finn took heavy steps back into camp, Raven’s eyes tracing after him.

Clarke gulped, thick and heavy. “I need some air,” she muttered in wavering tones, feet leading her back into the forest a moment later.

“Clarke!—” Bellamy barked, torn between chasing after her and returning to the illusion of safety provided by the scrap metal walls. He chose the former, ducking his head and darting after her a beat later. “Dammit, Clarke, you can’t be out here alone!” he projected, falling into step with her in a few more long strides.

Clarke seemed intent on not talking and Bellamy was happy to oblige. Eventually, her feet dragged to a halt and she stood silently in the gap between two trees. He took a position a respectable distance away, patiently waiting for her to say something as his eyes continuously monitored the activity around them.

“Are you okay?” Bellamy’s voice was low and smooth when he finally spoke.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said flippantly, choosing to focus on a stray leaf flitting across the ground, propelled by the gentle breeze.

“I’m serious,” he said, shoulders slumping slightly as if he were tired of saying the phrase.

“Yeah,” Clarke replied, this time more serious. “Yeah…” she repeated, knitting her brows and nodding almost imperceptibly. “I’m not hurt.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Bellamy pressed his lips into a hard line, unrelenting gaze fixed on her features.

She let out a labored sigh. “I can’t do this with you right now.” She didn’t feel like opening up to anyone. Everything was still so close, so raw. Hell, she hadn’t even had time to process all that had happened—being with Bellamy, Finn interrupting them, meeting the grounders’ leader, almost getting stabbed by her, the possibility of peace slipping away after Jasper had fired that first shot...

“Okay,” he said easily. “But if you think I’m just letting this go, you’re wrong.”

Clarke squeezed the muscles in her jaw until pain pulsed through the bone.

Making sure to keep the space between them, Bellamy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “What do you need?”

She laughed then, something hollow and devoid of emotion. “A time machine? To not have the threat of a grounder attack looming over our heads?” The words were coming quickly, spilling from her lips by the dozen. “To live in a place where I don’t sleep under a parachute being held up by fallen tree branches? A way to—”

“Okay, okay,” he sighed, taking a half step closer and holding up a hand to stop her from spiraling. “I get it.”

“I don’t know how we’re gonna fix this.” Her expression was blank save for the way her brows furrowed, eyes raking from side to side mechanically, voice sounding like a far away echo.

“We’ll figure something out,” he said, confidence almost shining through the words but not quite. Bellamy didn’t bother with a smile, only placed a reassuring hand on her elbow.

That seemed to cause something inside of her to snap. Clarke’s eyes went wide and a small vibration took root in her hands. “We killed some of their people, Bellamy. You _shot_ their leader.” Her whole body began to violently shake as her breathing became ragged.

With little thought, Bellamy wrapped his arms around her. He’d helped Octavia through a number of panic attacks when she was younger, when she was still afraid of hiding beneath the floorboards. It was second nature to him at this point.

Cradling the back of her head with one hand, he positioned Clarke so that her ear was pressed against the space above his heart. With the other he traced slow, deliberate circles over her back, making sure his palm stayed flush against the fabric of her jacket the entire time. Though she was rigid against him, she didn’t fight his touch.

“You’re okay, Clarke. You’re safe,” he soothed, making sure to use the lower register of his voice. Still trembling, she fisted her hands into his shirt, nails scraping the skin over his ribcage through the thin layer of cotton. He winced but continued to talk her down. “Listen to my heartbeat.” He felt her fingers curl tighter around the deep navy material as she fought to still the shaking of her muscles. “I want you to try and match my breathing.” Bellamy modeled the action, making sure to inhale for longer than he exhaled.

Slowly, Clarke began to align her breaths with his, her grip on his clothing loosening with each lungful of air. Eventually, she turned her neck and pulled back from him—just far enough so she could meet his eyes, which, she found, held only concern. He was looking at her as though she might break—but there was more. He was looking at her as though she might break _and it was his responsibility to keep her from doing so_.

“Better?” he asked. Clarke gave a curt nod, gulping in the process. “Chin up, Princess. We’ll get through this…” The fear behind his eyes betrayed the empty platitude, shattering the illusion of confidence he was trying so hard to keep up. “Always do.” He was terrified.

 

* * *

 

Aside from the occasional crunch of a leaf or the snap of a brittle twig, their walk back to camp was silent. An unspoken question hung in the stale air between them, a threatening weight over their heads that promised to come crashing down at even the slightest disturbance.

_How are we going to protect everyone now?_

They barely even noticed the dull glow of the fires as they approached the wall for the second time that evening. Delinquents were roaming about, completely oblivious to the veritable shitstorm that was sure to come raining down on them as a consequence of the events from earlier that day.

They needed a place to talk that wasn’t swarming with prying ears, a place where they could figure out next steps without raising the alarm or inciting panic throughout the camp. Bellamy’s tent was the largest, so it made sense to gather everyone there. Clarke seemed to be thinking the same thing, so when he pressed a guiding hand to the small of her back, she immediately responded, taking sure steps toward the domed parachute.

Bellamy lifted the flap of his tent for her as they approached, mumbling a quiet, “I’ll get the others—”

“No.” A questioning expression twisted his features as he met her gaze. “Other people are the reason we’re in this mess,” she supplied. “Plus, I’m not sure that all of us could even stand to be in the same room right now.” Clarke ducked under his arm without another word, pacing over to the makeshift bench and taking a seat.

Bellamy sighed and followed suit, slumping against the side of his cot, forearms resting on his bent knees. As much as he’d learned to value—admire, even— everyone’s strengths—Raven’s intelligence, Jasper’s wit, even Finn’s pacifism (though he mostly just wanted to shove a boot up the kid’s ass for making his life more difficult)—this was something they were going to have to do themselves. It was up to Clarke and him to pull them out of this ditch, to set things right again.

They managed to stay conscious for about a half hour before the last of the adrenaline worked its way out of their system and exhaustion gradually claimed their bodies, slowing their movements and clouding their thoughts. Through a series of stifled yawns, they relaxed—Clarke into a curled up position on the hard bench and Bellamy allowing his legs to straighten on the ground in front of him, his head lolling back against the soft furs padding his bed. Both of them fought the weight of their eyelids, struggling to mumble coherent ideas even as the comforting blackness of a dreamless sleep enveloped their minds.

 

* * *

 

The rustling of fabric startled Bellamy awake, and he reached for the knife tucked into his boot before his eyes were even fully open. His vision blurred as he struggled to focus on the outline of a person standing at the entrance to his tent. A moment later, her long hair and olive skin came into focus.

Octavia.

Her eyes flicked from him to a still-sleeping Clarke and back again. Bellamy sheathed the knife and jutted his chin to the side, motioning for them to take this outside.

He yawned, scrubbing a hand over his face to wipe away the drowsiness before moving to stand up. The orange glow from the fires outside barely passed through the material of his tent, but it provided enough light for Bellamy to see that Clarke was still soundly asleep, knees pulled close to her chest as she shivered from the cold night air. He briefly thought about transferring her to his bed but stamped out the idea almost as soon as it had popped into his head. Instead he settled for draping one of his furs over her, a small smile turning up his lips when he saw her limbs still and her breathing even out.  

Upon exiting his quarters, Bellamy saw that Octavia had her arms crossed stubbornly in front of her chest. “I’m not apologizing for earlier,” she stated bluntly.

“Me either,” he returned, running a hand through his unruly curls.

She angled her chin toward where he came from, brows pulling together in question. “What’s Clarke doing in your tent?”

“Trying to figure out a way to keep us all alive for another day,” he said coldly, acutely aware of how Octavia tried to hide the way the muscles of her face twitched in guilt. When she didn’t respond, he pressed, “What do you want, O?”

Octavia shifted her weight from one leg to the other, arms dropping so that her right hand was clasped around the opposite wrist. “Is she okay?” Her voice was small and she wouldn’t meet his gaze.

Bellamy drew in a calming breath. “She’s fine.” _No thanks to you_ , he left off.

“I don’t know what happened,” she started, honesty and vulnerability barely concealed by her tone. “Lincoln promised—”

“Linc—” he hissed, barely catching himself before he let loose a string of curses. Her casual use of the name caused something to snap inside of him, and he fought to get his emotions back under control. “He’s a _grounder_ , Octavia. What did you expect?”

“He’s different—he _saved_ me,” she whispered angrily.

“He _kidnapped_ you, O—chained you up!” Bellamy fought to keep from shouting the words, to yell them loud enough so that they would penetrate her thick skull. “Or have you forgotten about that already?”

Her nostrils flared. “He was trying to protect me,” she mumbled through clenched teeth.

“No, if he’d been trying to protect you, he would’ve brought you back to us,” Bellamy deadpanned, frustration causing him to ball his hands into tight fists.

Octavia gritted her teeth, tilting her chin in the way she always did when she was fed up with something—or someone. “He went against his people today, you know. In their eyes, he betrayed them.”

Bellamy held his tongue, gulping down the string of words that were sure to prolong this argument. “Was there something you wanted?” he said in their place, adjusting his irritated gaze back to her eyes where it had been previously focused on something over her shoulder.

Her expression was unreadable as she stared at him. “No, I guess not.”

“In that case, I’m going back to bed,” he said, annoyed and drained of energy.

He thought he heard the quick intake of breath, as though she were about to say something else, but Bellamy was back inside his tent before she’d had the chance.

His pallet felt hard underneath him as he twisted and turned to get comfortable. Finally, he settled for lying on his side with one arm propped under his head. It wasn’t until he let out a contented breath that he realized his gaze was focused on Clarke—on the gentle rise and fall of her chest and the deep golden color the light from the flames turned her hair. He’d never seen her look so peaceful—no crease marring her brow or frown turning down the corners of her mouth.

Only hours ago, she’d literally been a half second away from being ripped from this life. If he hadn’t been there… the thought caused a sour taste to fill his mouth.

Just then, Clarke sighed something that sounded like his name as she shifted in her sleep. In response, his chest tightened and he momentarily stopped breathing. Every time he wrestled his eyes shut, they would inevitably drift back open and rest on Clarke’s soft features.

Sleep didn’t come easily for Bellamy as he thought about the blonde lying three feet away, of the way her body had felt pressed against his the day before—of how it could feel again if he played his cards right.

 _Ah, hell_ , he thought before flipping onto his back and closing his eyes defiantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [She’ll never admit it, but Octavia went to see Bellamy because she couldn’t sleep due to guilt. She went to him because he’s her family and she wanted someone to be there for her. Too bad they're both too stubborn to actually deal with their emotions.]
> 
> Reviews give me life, so don't be shy :)


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